Red River
by kaneiac
Summary: Avery Carter, the BAU's newest agent, helps them solve grisly murders committed by disturbed individuals. What happens when she realizes that not all is as it seems? A haunting history plagues her and the team as they spiral deeper and deeper into a web of lies, betrayal, and terror. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first Criminal Minds fanfic- enjoy :)**

"Fuck," I muttered as boiling hot coffee splashed over the lid of my thermos and onto my hand. Wincing, I slowed my pace and quickly dabbed at my thermos to get rid of the liquid, and checked my hand. A bit of a blister, but nothing that wouldn't recede in a few hours. I kicked open the door that led to the BAU headquarters, entering the large office sideways as I glanced up from my hand. Agents were seated in their cubicles, either chatting or monotonously going through paperwork. Without hesitation I strode past them and glided up the stairs to an office adorned with a plaque that read, "Aaron Hotchner." With a quick knock, and an even faster response, I opened the door.

"Avery Carter. Pleased to meet you, I'm SSA Hotchner."

I walked in to the room and shook the agent's hand. He was tall, trim, and stern; as if the frown he was wearing at present was eternally permanent.

"Pleased to meet you too, sir."

He sat down, and motioned for me to do the same. "I've taken the liberty of looking over your file- I'm correct in understanding that you were recommended to me by Erin Strauss?"

"Yes, sir," I responded carefully. I glanced around his office. Pictures of a young child adorned his desk, but no picture of a wife. Other than that, it was sparse. It was evident that either his life revolved around his job, or he didn't want to bring his personal life into his work environment. Possibly both, I mused. A few beats of silence passed.

"You graduated college early," SSA Hotchner said abruptly. "You have a masters at the age of 21, which is under the age requirement for the FBI."

"Agent Strauss said that wouldn't matter," I said briskly. We made tense eye contact.

"You majored in political science with a concentration in 'political psychology'."

"Yes, sir."

"Why did you graduate early?"

I swallowed. "The opportunity arose and I took it."

"Why did Agent Strauss want you to work for the BAU?"

"That's between me and her, sir. You'll have to trust her judgment on that." SSA Hotchner lifted his head and gave me a quick look of suspicion. Sighing, he shuffled my file on his desk and checked his watch. "We need to get going. JJ's found a new case."

"JJ?" I asked, grabbing my bag and thermos.

"That would be Special Agent Jareau." We left his office and SSA Hotchner shut the door loudly behind me. In seconds, he was opening the door to a large conference room, where about five other agents were seated.

"Agents, this is Avery Carter. She'll be joining the team on Strauss's orders." I paused as I glanced at them. A man of distinct Italian heritage stood up, and extended his hand. I shook it firmly.

"SSA David Rossi," the man said. I mustered a polite smile. The other agents introduced themselves to me in turn. The nerdy, slender young man was Dr. Reid; a raven haired woman with a penetrating gaze was SSA Prentiss; an imposing blonde was SA Jareau; and a well-muscled man with a devilish grin was SSA Morgan. I sat down quietly between Rossi and Prentiss. Agent Jareau- JJ., I realized- stood up and a grisly image flashed on the screen.

"5 days ago three college students were found beaten to death in the basement of the chemistry department building at Reed College, which is just outside of Boston, Massachusetts."

"So why did BPD call this in to us, if it happened 5 days ago?" Morgan asked, his eyebrows furrowed.

JJ gave him a glance before another picture popped up on the screen. "Yesterday, 3 more students were found in the same condition in the basement of the building that houses the Art History department. All of the victims were beaten so badly that it's taken longer than usual to identify the bodies, but we know four of the victims. Andrew Bell, Blake Carlton, Olivia Mayhugh, and Vanessa Tweedy."

"The unsub crossed racial and gender boundaries," Prentiss noted. "He doesn't seem to care about what his victims look like, so it's not likely that there's a sexual element to these crimes."

I chimed in. "The overkill suggests that he most likely knew the victims, if he wasn't a sadist."

Hotch nodded. "For whatever reason he's killing, he's spiraling. He kills in threes, suggesting that there's a reason he sticks to that pattern."

"It could be like that one case we had with the girl who killed in threes," Reid added. "The unsub may have a form of OCD."

"If he is, the compulsion will get stronger each second. We don't have time to waste. Wheels up in 30," Hotch said sharply, standing up. The rest of the team stood up as I lagged behind, confused.

"We're boarding the plane in 30 minutes," Morgan said, brushing my shoulder. "Welcome to the team, newbie." I grinned softly, grabbing my bag as I left the room. Luckily, Hotch had told me to pack enough clothes for a few days before I came.

An hour later, I was sitting on the plane in a secluded corner. I patiently sat there, watching the rest of the team as I zoned out periodically. We had taken off a while ago, and since then I had slipped into the farthest seat away from the others. A ping sounded from the monitor next to Hotch, and a vibrant woman who immediately caught my interest flashed on the screen.

"Hello my lovelies."

"Hey, dollface," Morgan said casually. My eyebrows raised for a fraction, and I forced them back down. "What have you got for us?"

"Nothing good, like usual around here," she sighed. "Another victim was identified- Gabriel Pollard. All of the students identified this far are freshmen and sophomores; between the ages of 18 and 21. Children," the woman finished sadly.

"They're technically adults," Reid said quickly.

Prentiss looked over to the monitor. "Garcia, what can you tell us about the connections between the victims?"

"See, that's the big problem that is currently eluding my magical psychic scooby-dooby skills," Garcia said, frustrated. "None of their classes overlapped and none of them were living in the same dorm- who is that?" She stopped abruptly, her surprised gaze fixated on me. I immediately blushed as everyone turned to look at me.

"Special Agent Avery Carter," Hotch sighed. "I forgot to tell you, Garcia. She's joining the team."

"Oh," she responded, shocked. I could feel a soft blush creeping up into my cheeks.

"Call us when you find something new," Morgan said.

"Aye aye, captain." The monitor turned black again.

"So he's crossing racial and gender boundaries, and he doesn't seem to care about the specific relationship between the students," Morgan said, tapping his pen against the armrest of his seat. "This guy just doesn't care who he's killing."

"They could be surrogates," Prentiss argued. "Just because he's not a preferential murderer doesn't mean the victims don't symbolize individuals in his life."

"So you're saying that he might be drawing his rage from a group, rather than from an individual?" J.J. asked.

"They could have been bullied in high school, and when they got to college they thought it would change, but it didn't," Reid said softly. I shot him a quick glance. It seemed like he was speaking from experience.

"So right now we're probably looking for a male in his late teens and early twenties," Rossi noted. "Probably suffers from anger management issues and had a rough adolescence. He would fit the school-shooter typology."

"School shooter typology?" I asked.

"Even though he's not using a gun to inflict the murders, all of the signs point to a young man intent on seeking revenge for perceived and experienced wrongs," Hotch responded briskly. I nodded. "We're about to land," he continued. "Rossi, take Carter, Reid, and Prentiss to the crime scenes. J.J. and Morgan will go with me to the police station."

An hour later, I was quickly walking through the crowded walkways of an obviously uneasy Reed College. My credentials flashing in the breeze, I could see the students turning in interest as Rossi, Reid, Prentiss and I followed the college dean, Robert Elliot. It was April, and I briefly reminisced on my experience in college. It wasn't as tranquil and carefree as the traditional college experience- I had willingly been placed on a fast-track to a masters degree, and after what happened during that summer...college hadn't been a happy time.

"Should we evacuate the school?" Robert asked. His brow had been shiny with perspiration since we had informed him that he had a serial killer in his student body. The green trees slowly blew in the wind, sending scents of wildflowers towards me.

"I don't know how useful that would be," Reid responded. "It's likely the unsub would resurface again once classes restarted." I was trailing the back of the group, where I usually preferred to be; I liked to survey the surroundings, and keep an eye behind us. I watched Reid. From what I could gather, he was a highly intelligent individual; I didn't know exactly how high his IQ was, but it was evident that he had an eidetic memory as well. He lacked general social skills, and most likely suffered from some form of social anxiety at some point in his life. Tall and lanky, he didn't strike an initial observer as a private agent. I turned my gaze to Prentiss. She was imposing and serious, with striking features and jet-black hair. She was intelligent but more aggressive than the others, making her appear more intimidating to the general population. Voices called me back into my surroundings.

"Carter," Rossi said. I blinked and looked at him, immediately alert. "You're with me. We're going to check the second crime scene. Prentiss and Reid, you go to the first." They nodded, and we split up. Robert left to go meet with the head of campus security, and Rossi and I began our walk to the art history department.

"Pleased to meet you, Agent Carter," Rossi said gently. For a moment, I felt relieved. He seemed to be the first agent who didn't obviously treat me with suspicion. "Is this your first case?" We walked down the sidewalk, shady trees blowing in the wind.

"Yes," I responded. I flashed him a glance. "Luckily I'm familiar with the area, I don't feel too out of place."

"You're from here?" Rossi asked in surprise. I shook my head.

"Not Boston," I replied. "Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I've been to Boston a lot."

"Did you stay here for college too?" I hesitated, memories flooding back.

I released a deep breath. "Nothing left for me here. I went to Scotland for college."

"Which university?" Rossi queried.

I paused. Was he genuinely interested in me as an individual, or was he attempting to get something- anything, really -out of me? "Edinbrugh. I studied political science."

"What interested you about political science? I don't see you being a politician," Rossi said, giving me a once over. I had to agree. Messy, long, dirty blonde hair, slightly baggy cargo pants, and a loose sweater didn't really hint at political ambition.

I shrugged. "I was interested in psychology, but more about how it impacted policy," I said. "To me, political science is the empirical result of group and individual psychology."

"Interesting," Rossi mused, as we scuttled down the stairs of the art history department. As we entered the basement, an unmistakably dingy and musty smell pervaded my nostrils. I wrinkled my nose. Rossi sighed as we rounded a corner and stumbled upon the crime scene. Blood still stained the floor, and it was splattered on the walls.

"Who found them?" I asked, peering at the blood as I crouched on the floor.

"Allison Gonzaga," Rossi said. "Professor of Art History."

"She's been questioned, right?" I asked, stepping over the yellow tape to get closer to the walls.

"Yep. She didn't have anything to do with it," Rossi replied. "There's not much here," he said, disappointment creeping into his voice. "It's pretty straightforward. Bang, he hits them with something- most likely a baseball bat, or something of the sort, end of story."

I stood up, looking around the dusty corridor. "Yeah," I said, my voice slow, "but how did he get them down here? Why would three people willingly follow someone into a dirty basement?"

"They were probably lured down here."

"Under the ruse of drugs? Alcohol?" I pondered. "Those are probably the two main things college kids would go into a dark basement for."

Rossi pulled out his phone, and quickly speed dialed a number.

"Yeah, Hotch? Carter thinks the unsub is either a drug dealer or an alcohol provider," the agent said. After a pause, he said, "okay, sounds good." The line clicked off, and Rossi looked at me.

"Prentiss and Morgan are already headed back to the station," he said. "Let's get going. I think we have a profile."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Room 217**

I burst into the bathroom. I took a deep, shaky breath, and looked into the scratched mirror. The overhead lighting did nothing to help my appearance. My under-eye circles appeared more prominent than they had two hours ago. Limp dirty blonde hair fell around a delicately featured, yet sharp, face. I barely recognized who I was. Coming back to Boston had brought back terrible memories, memories I tried to forget, but couldn't help but remember. We had just delivered the profile to the campus security officers and policemen who had come to campus. The third floor of the student center was acting as our headquarters, and asking for a moment alone, I had snuck in here. I ran my hand through my hair, agitation coursing through me. I didn't want another flashback, not now. I need to keep my shit together so I can keep this job, I told myself. But it came anyway.

I was sleeping. The flaps of the tents rattled as wind whistled through the pines. It was cold. Too cold. I jolted awake as some sound- some guttural, bloodcurdling, terrible shriek erupted just next to my ear. I sat up immediately, too terrified to make a sound. Mom? Dad? A branch snapped outside. I think it was a branch. Did that shriek even happen? Am I dreaming? I'm shaking. What's going on? It was too cold. Teeth. They're chattering. Why? Oh right, it's cold. I'm scared. I'm so, so scared. What do I do? Mom? Dad?

"Carter?"

I jumped, my heart racing, as Emily touched my shoulder. Silently panicking, I wondered what she saw. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice shaking. Dammit, why was it shaking? Stop it, I scolded myself. You can act more normal than this. I started to back out of the multi-stall bathroom. "Just tired," I whispered. Emily stared at me, confusion etched across her features. I turned and stumbled out of the bathroom. I was still cold.

"Carter, there you are," Hotch said, turning to me as I came up to the rest of the group. He paused. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I shook my head, smiling softly. "I'm fine." Ignoring the penetrating stares of my new coworkers, I quickly retook my seat next to Dr. Reid. My hands were still shaking, and I quickly hid them under the table. I looked up to see Emily return, sitting across from me. My mossy green eyes met her dark brown irises, and she quickly looked away.

"We're going to coordinate with Robert Eliot, the dean of Reed College, and look through all the potential students who meet our criteria," Hotch announced. White, late teens to early twenties, drug dealer or alcohol smuggler to younger students, charismatic but secretly deeply insecure, I recited to myself. Hotch spoke again. "Garcia has found about 700 males who fit the age and race preference." I let go of my breath. That was a lot.

"How are we going to narrow down the potential unsubs?" Morgan asked. "That's a lot of names to go through."

"It might do well to check and see which students that fit the profile frequent the counseling center on campus. Given that this was a past trauma, it's likely they tried to get help for their issues," I said.

Prentiss perked up. "She's right," she said. "Especially since the unsub is going to an extremely selective school, it's likely they're a high achiever and that they undergo pressure from parents."

"Helicopter parenting," Morgan added. "It's likely this kid has long term issues with performance anxiety and probably sought help for it once it started to interfere with his academics."

Hotch whipped out his phone. "Garcia," he asked, "can you see which of those 700 males used counseling services at the colleges?"

"I'm on it…400 visited the counseling center at least once, often during exam week," Garcia said. "200 visited more than 5 times over the course of a year…70 more than 5 times over the course of a semester… and 33 visited regularly, usually weekly."

"Did any get referred to visit outside psychiatrists or therapists to continue treatment?" I asked.

Garcia paused. "14 were."

"That narrows it down," Rossi said. "A lot."

"Can you send us those names?" Hotch asked.

"Already done," Garcia chirped back.

"Thanks, Garcia." The line ended.

Hotch turned to me. "Carter, I want you to stay here with JJ and I to work with Dean Eliot. Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, Reid- interview the victims' friends." I nodded. The rest of the team stood up to leave, and I shuffled my files around, trying to become calm. Dammit, I thought. Why did that moment have to come back to haunt me now, when it's the first day of my job? I grabbed a bottle of water and drank some, trying to settle my nerves. I hadn't had a flashback like that in two months, a record for me. A cold shiver raced up my spine, and I didn't even realize that Dean Eliot had entered the small and cramped room that reeked of stale coffee and exhaustion.

"Robert," JJ said, "we're going to need your help finding this killer."

Eliot shifted nervously in his seat. "Anything I can do to help, agents."

Hotch nodded, and sat down next to Eliot. "You speak with a lot of students daily, right?" Eliot assented. "Did any ever strike you as troubled?"

Eliot sighed. "A lot of them are, especially during their first year. There's a lot of stress about school and making friends, dealing with underage drinking, whether or not they're partying too hard."

"Was there any student in specific who particularly worried you?" JJ queried.

The Dean looked down at his hands folded neatly in his hands. "Truth be told, Agents," he said softly, "they come in, I listen, I try to help as best I can, but there are so many. There are a few that fit your profile, but there are probably more that I'm missing."

Disappointment flooded through me, but I kept a calm demeanor. "Anything you can tell us will help," I said quietly as I leaned forward.

Eliot met my gaze. "I'm in charge of these students, agent. It's my fault that they're being murdered in a place they're supposed to be safe." He paused, shaking his head as he choked up. I felt uncomfortable. Emotional matters weren't my forte, but luckily JJ was already comforting the Dean.

"You're doing all you can now," JJ said, her tone soft. "No one is responsible for this but the person who's doing this." I studied the agent briefly. She was beautiful, I evaluated, though obviously an individual was more than their appearance. JJ's presence was soft and comforting, silently strong- an interesting blend of characteristics.

Eliot let out a shaky breath. "Okay," he said. "I'm sorry I'm getting all choked up- I care about these kids, that's all."

"We know that," Hotch said calmly. "You're a good man, Eliot. Help us, and you'll be an even better one."

Eliot nodded, and Hotch presented pictures of the 14 students who had been referred to continue long term treatment outside of the college. Eliot looked through them, eventually putting six in a separate pile. "I remember these ones," he said suddenly. "Pretty upset kids."

"Why were they upset?" I asked.

Eliot's brow furrowed. "General anxiety and stress, for the most part. Some grumblings about the social scene here," he added. "A lot of kids don't feel really comfortable with drugs and alcohol, even if they won't admit it to their peers."

"Did any of these particular students mention being dissatisfied with the social scene?" I pressed.

"All of them did, but they expressed being more stressed with academics more than that, I think. I'm sorry I can't help more."

Hotch met Eliot's gaze. "You helped more than you think you did. You're free to go," he said.

In turn, we shook Eliot's clammy hand, and once the door closed, I turned to Hotch and JJ. "Something's not right," I said. "His behavior was off."

"I agree," Hotch said, his serious face becoming even more stern.

"Do you think he's hiding something?" JJ asked, concern flooding her delicate features.

"I think he's hiding someone," I answered.

5 hours later, we still didn't have any leads. Questioning Eliot would probably only lead him to become more agitated, and none of our possible subjects were checking out. It was 1 am, and the team was exhausted. Reid had fallen asleep in his chair 20 minutes ago, and the familiar tug of sleep kept nagging me. I tried to fight it off with coffee, but it wasn't working. I rested my head on my hand, and I felt myself slip off.

It was cold. Too cold. I had been here before. I was sitting up, huddled, my sleeping bag curled around me. Mom? Dad? This wasn't good. I'm shaking. It's too cold. Did I hear that? Was that a shriek? I stood up in the tent, hunched over. Can't see. Breathing too fast. I need to calm down. Mom? Dad? Where are you? Trembling, I found the flashlight. Click. It's on. Nothing. They weren't there. The sleeping bags were empty. I shivered. Too cold. The flap of the tent was open. I paused. I'm scared. What do I do? I'm panting. Need to calm down. I'm so scared. Mom? Dad? I looked out. Nothing. What do I do? Too dark, can't see. Should I use the flashlight? What if I see something terrible...I can't look. I need to- I can't. I fidgeted. The decision was agonizing. Do I look? The wind howled suddenly and I jumped. The tent rustled and I thought my heart would beat out of my chest. Help. Someone help me. Something's not right. I looked. I held my breath. There's nothing outside. Nothing. Where are they? What do I do? Someone help me. I'm so scared. I'm so scared. Someone, please. Oh God, what's banging on the tent? I need help, what do I do. Oh God.

"Carter?"

I jumped. Prentiss was sitting next to me, and she had prodded me with a finger. "Sorry," I whispered, rubbing my eyes as I tried to sit up straight.

"Don't worry about it," she said, her voice low and wary. I turned my gaze back to the other members of the team. Chinese take out boxes were strewn around the table, and files had fallen onto the floor.

"Still no leads?" I asked. She shook her head. Reid was still sleeping in his chair, and the rest of the team had gone. "Where are the others?"

"There was another call," Prentiss said. "Three more bodies." I jumped up.

"I should be there," I said, irritation flooding into my voice.

Prentiss shook her head. "Hotch wanted us three to stay behind and look over what we already had," she said. "He said that you and Reid have the highest IQs. I let you sleep for a while before I woke you. It's better to work with a well-rested agent than a grumpy one."

"How did Hotch know my IQ?" I asked, uncomfortable. This team already seemed to know more about me than I would have preferred. The dream still lingered in my mind, but it was beginning to fade as I became more focused.

"Don't ask me. But I need to get Reid up, and then we need to figure this out. The unsub is spiraling, and time is running out," Prentiss said, her voice tight with worry. As she woke up read, I looked at the picture of the 14 students again. Something was off about the pictures. A phone buzzed, and Prentiss quickly picked it up.

"Yeah, Hotch?" She said. "Okay. See you in ten." She clicked off the phone, and turned to me. "Three victims again, found in the basement of the religion and philosophy department building."

"They're found earlier than the other two times. Who found them?" Reid asked.

"Security guard. The scene is the same as the last two. Bludgeoned to death," Prentiss informed us. I sighed. What were we missing? I looked back down at the pictures. Something was off, I just didn't know- I jumped up.

"We need Garcia," I said, pacing. Almost immediately, the computer tech was on the line.

"What do you need, my sweet crime-solving bunnies?"

"Garcia," I began. "It's Carter. Can you do a facial analysis on the 14 students who were referred to other psychiatrists and cross check them with Robert Eliot?" I asked, staring down at the photos.

"Yes, yes I can do that. On it right now…" Fervent typing filled my ears. "Okay…there's a Brandon Fields who matches Robert Eliot's facial composition almost 60%."

"Is there any known relation between them?" Reid asked. There was a pause, and then Garcia responded.

"It says that Brandon was born in 1990 to a 16 year old prostitute named Wendy Fields. The father isn't listed on the official birth certificate, but with a little bit of digging…there we go. A DNA test Brandon took when he was 15 listed Robert Eliot as the father."

"That makes Eliot…what, 40 at the time his son was born?" Prentiss queried.

Garcia swallowed. "Yes ma'am."

Prentiss looked disgusted. "She was sixteen…Garcia, any record on her?"

"She died two weeks ago in a car accident."

"That's the trigger," Reid noted.

"Any record from school about incidents he got into?"

Garcia sighed. "This is sad. Wendy was a single mom, and they lived in poverty for most of their life. There are a lot of reports of Brandon being the victim of bullying since kindergarten, and it doesn't look like anything was done about it- it was the same three people over and over again that were listed as the aggressors in the reports... hold on. There's something...oh my god."

"What is it?" I asked, anticipation and impatience consuming me.

"At the ripe age of 16, Brandon located his father and began blackmailing him. That's how he got into college, Eliot let him in, paid for his tuition and everything." I looked up at Prentiss and Reid, eyes wide.

"Sounds like he could be our unsub," Prentiss said. "Okay, Garcia. Send this information to Hotch, he's closer to Eliot than we are. Can you locate where Brandon Fields is?"

"His last cell phone ping 5 minutes ago puts him in Thompson Hall," Garcia quickly responded.

"Can you give us a floor?" Prentiss asked, grabbing bulletproof vests from a box in the corner. She flung one at me, and I quickly put it on.

"His room number is listed as 217, it's on the second floor. It's apartment style, it has several rooms," Garcia said, agitated. "Stay safe." The line clicked off. A sudden course of adrenaline raced through me. I was about to go after a dangerous suspect, and although I had passed training with flying colors due to my years as an athlete in school, I was inexperienced. Training sessions weren't the same as the real thing.

"Let's go," Prentiss said. "Thompson Hall is two buildings away from here."

We flew out of the room, scurrying down the stairs and racing out of the student center. Prentiss led Reid and I as we rushed behind her down the empty sidewalk, which was dimly lit by the soft moonlight.

"In here," Prentiss yelled, as she flung open the door to a statuesque building. As we darted around the corner, another wave of nervousness flooded through me. What if I messed up? I was running up the stairs, and we quickly came to Fields's room. Pausing outside of it, Prentiss held a finger to her lips. Reid and I nodded.

"Brandon Fields?" She yelled. There was no response. "FBI, open up." Silence. With a nod, I got into position. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she turned it- it wasn't locked. Swiftly, she opened the door and I burst in, Reid right behind me.

The foyer was empty. "Clear," I yelled. Reid darted to my left and Prentiss straight ahead as I moved to the right. I kicked open a door that led to a bedroom. The lights were off, and I couldn't see anything. As I clicked on my flashlight, something smashed into my head as a figure appeared in front of me. With a grunt, I fell to the floor as a harsh blow hit my shoulder. Something popped, and I stifled a shriek as the bat came down again.

 **I hope you guys enjoyed :) please review! It helps me a lot to know how I could improve.**


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